


Close Enough To Speak

by chaosmanor



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Internal Monologue, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-01
Updated: 2006-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:16:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosmanor/pseuds/chaosmanor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Close Enough To Speak

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.

Sometimes, just sometimes, it would be good to have some fucking privacy.

One day, Viggo would wrap a towel around his waist and open the bathroom door, and there wouldn’t be an all-singing, all-dancing goddamn party going on in the trailer. Then he’d be able to get dressed in private, have a maté in peace, and make his way home feeling relaxed and calm.

True, one long-legged, hyperactive post-adolescent reading in his chair didn’t actually count as a party, and there wasn’t music on, and the afore-mentioned post-adolescent hadn’t even looked up from his book, but it was still the principle of the thing.

How much of that Viggo had said aloud wasn’t clear, but Orlando lifted his eyes and blinked, and said, “Of course, if you took your clothes into the bathroom, you could get dressed in private there. Kettle’s on.”

Viggo’s gourd was somewhere, probably in the box of junk he lugged around with him. A quick rummage through the paint tubes and film canisters in the box was fruitless, and it wasn’t until Viggo stood up again that it occurred to him that crawling around the trailer floor wearing only a towel might be a little revealing. Still, this was Orlando, who had the boundaries of a fucking pygmy chimp.

“Fuck you,” Orlando said good-naturedly. “And that wooden mug thing of yours is under your chair.”

It was too.

This time, mindful of the towel, Viggo squatted down and retrieved the gourd.

There was an empty mug, dregs of a previous drink congealing in the bottom, resting on the counter top, so presumably Orlando wanted a mug of tea. Viggo leaned over and flipped the lid on the trash, emptying the remnants of the last batch of yerba into the bin.

“That’d be why the kettle is on,” Orlando pointed out. “And why the mug you just knocked over had a tea-bag in it.”

The kettle clunked and hissed, and Viggo spooned yerba flakes into his gourd, half-filling it, then found a new tea-bag for Orlando.

Orlando drank Earl Gray, dreadful stuff that smelled of sewing machine oil and air freshener, and Viggo kept his face out of the condensation roiling out of Orlando’s mug while he jiggled the tea-bag.

Maté took time to make, to add the water a splash at a time, letting the flakes soak it up, and Orlando obviously got tired of waiting for his tea, making the trailer floor creak as he bounced out of his chair. Post-adolescence impatience, it drove Viggo fucking crazy.

The fridge beside Viggo’s knees opened and closed, and Orlando squeezed into the space beside Viggo and reached for his mug, muttering under his breath, “You were already fucking crazy.”

There wasn’t space for both of them, not without turning hot drink preparation into a body-contact sport, so when Viggo reached around behind Orlando for his bombilla, which was propped on the draining board, he found himself pressed up hard against post-adolescent ass.

“Bloody-Nora!” Orlando said. “You right there?”

There were levels of rightness in the world. There was early-morning rightness, waiting for dawn to kiss the horizon. There was ham sandwich rightness, where mustard exploded in his mouth with the first bite. There was late-night whiskey rightness, carburetor-tuning rightness, and the rightness of new canvas, waiting to be primed…

“For fuck’s sake,” Orlando said, and he sounded amused. “I don’t usually let a bloke get this cozy unless he’s bought me dinner.”

There was an idea in there, something new and especially entertaining, to do with the way Orlando’s ass felt, with the half-smile in his voice, with the fact he was in the trailer at all instead of off doing whatever it was he usually did after work.

Orlando twisted around inside Viggo’s arms, and there was smug challenge in his grin. “All talk, no action?” Orlando asked.

After a heart-pounding moment of hesitation, the kind that made Viggo’s belly burn in a good way, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Orlando’s.

Orlando’s mouth was a secret, forgiving lips and the warmth of sweet tea, wending its way into Viggo’s veins, coaxing him forward so that when Orlando wrapped his arms around Viggo’s neck they were as close as they could be.

His belly burn slipped lower, pulling his balls tight, waking his body from slumber, and he had to grip the edge of the counter and draining board hard just to hold them both steady.

Orlando pulled his mouth away and took a shuddering breath in, his eyes still closed, and Viggo watched enthralled while Orlando licked his bottom lip, quick swipe of pink tongue.

Fuck, but Viggo wanted to do depraved things to Orlando.

Orlando’s eyelids slid open and there was no tease there, no witty rebuff, no patronizing brush-off. “Then do them,” he said.

Viggo dragged himself away from Orlando, peeling their bodies apart reluctantly, and Orlando’s eyes slid down Viggo’s body, over his bare chest, and the tip of his tongue swiped his bottom lip again. Viggo glanced down too, to where his cock was pushing against the damp toweling covering it.

Orlando sucked his breath in, involuntary sound that made Viggo’s cock jolt against its confinement. “Fuck,” Orlando whispered, and he was gone, sliding across the trailer to grab at his pack, then bolting past Viggo for the bathroom. “Well?” Orlando said, holding the bathroom door ajar.

The bathroom door slammed shut, and Viggo locked it and leaned back against it. Orlando dragged his T-shirt over his head, and the sound of their combined breathing was loud in the confined space until Orlando leaned forward and flicked the exhaust fan on.

“White noise,” he said.

Viggo slid a hand across Orlando’s chest, palm flat, fingertips pressing against the warmth, circling a nipple, waking it.

“Touch me,” Orlando whispered. “Really touch me.”

His mouth was open against Viggo’s, urgent and hungry, and Viggo touched him, running both hands over his back, cradling his neck, sliding the other hand down again to cup his ass through his jeans. The towel had stopped being any kind of covering, and Viggo’s bare cock jabbed against Orlando’s crotch, finding a delicious ridge through the fabric, and if Orlando’s whimpers were any indication, this was a good thing.

Orlando let go of Viggo’s back and shoved a hand between their bodies, dragging callused fingers the length of Viggo’s cock then yanking at the front of his own jeans.

The feel of Orlando’s ass when Viggo slid his hand inside his jeans was so good that Viggo groaned loudly and buried his face against Orlando’s neck, nipping on the skin, hanging on while Orlando twisted and squirmed, pushing and kicking his jeans off.

Their cocks collided, Orlando wriggled, rearranging the length of his body against Viggo’s, then he grunted and thrust forward, and the agonizing friction made Viggo want to scream, it was so fucking good.

“If you don’t fucking touch me soon, it’ll be me screaming,” Orlando whispered.

They were crammed up against the hand basin, the shower curtain was clammy against Viggo’s leg, and when he opened his eyes he could see pieces of them in the mirror, a tangle of limbs, entrapment of skin, olive and pale, but he couldn’t see Orlando’s face.

He could hear him though, Orlando’s mouth wet against his ear, hear the gasp he gave at the first slide of Viggo’s fingertips down the crack of his ass, the hiss of pleasure when fingertips flicked over sweat-damp skin.

“Please,” Orlando whispered, and Viggo touched him, circled two fingers around and around, spreading the cheeks of his ass with his other hand, pressing more firmly, his own breath rasping with anticipation.

Grappling together, bare skin sliding with sweat, gasping and groaning, made Viggo feel delirious, light-headed and dizzy. He pushed one fingertip in slowly, trying to hang onto the idea that he wasn’t using lube, that shoving two fingers in hard and fast and twisting them wasn’t an option, that the patient breach was all that Orlando could take.

“Pack,” Orlando moaned. “Lube in pack. Oh God, don’t stop.”

The pack was under Viggo’s feet, out of reach, and it was only the thought that if he didn’t stop to get the lube then he’d have to stop later that gave Viggo the strength of will to ease his finger out and disentangle their bodies enough to be able to reach down and rummage around for the pack.

Orlando’s cock, rock hard and needy, was there, right beside Viggo’s face, and there wasn’t a man alive that could have resisted the temptation. Viggo ran the flat of his tongue up the side and slid the head into his mouth, the taste biting at him, and when he glanced up, Orlando had his head tipped back and his mouth open.

His hands curled around Orlando’s hip bones, steadying him, steadying them both, so that Viggo could slide the full length across his tongue, deep into his throat. Orlando’s cock throbbed, pulsing hot, his scent filled Viggo’s body, thick and deep, and his fingers clutched onto Viggo’s hair and yanked his head back.

“Fucking tease,” Orlando whispered.

There was lube in the pack, from a half-used tube, cold and clear and slippery on Viggo’s fingers. Orlando turned around, hip and ass brushing over Viggo’s body, so he faced the mirror and could hang onto the basin.

If Viggo stepped back, almost into the shower cubicle, there was room to look down and watch his fingers slide in, at least until the half-articulated sound of Orlando saying his name made him lift his eyes again to meet Orlando’s gaze in the mirror.

“Do it,” Orlando mouthed in the mirror.

Both fingers slid in all the way, Orlando’s body clinging onto them, then Viggo pulled them back a little and twisted and curled them, eyes fixed on the mirror, reading Orlando’s face as well as the wet velvet of his body.

Orlando shattered, rolling forward across the basin, crying out, face crumpling, his right arm working hard as he jerked at himself.

There were condoms, retrieved from Orlando’s pack and balanced precariously above the basin. Viggo grabbed one left-handed and tore at the wrapper with his teeth, got it the right way around on the second attempt, and dragged the latex over his cock roughly.

The tube of lube was abandoned in the basin, and Viggo popped the cap with his teeth and held the tube over his cock and squeezed, then tossed the tube on the floor. He smudged the lube over the condom, trying not to come right at that moment, glanced one last time at Orlando’s face, then pulled his fingers out.

The head of his cock pressed lightly against Orlando, first touch, and Orlando whimpered. Viggo leaned his weight forward, trusting to an adult lifetime of experience of fucking and being fucked, pressing harder so that the tight hot flesh slid over him, enclosing the head of his cock gradually.

“Oh God,” Orlando groaned, and Viggo held still, counted to five slowly.

Then he inched his shaft in, hot body and cold lube, a million different ways of being, fragments of colors exploding in his mind, and he was all the way in.

Orlando, no innocent, no child, unfurled himself from the basin, leaning back against Viggo, and Viggo sucked on the skin of his shoulder and ran a lube-wet hand down his belly and curled it around his cock, and began to rock.

The trailer creaked faintly, over the noise of the exhaust fan, and Orlando rocked too. It wasn’t thrusting, there was no sliding, instead it moved their centre of gravity, shifting angles, changing the pressure, delicate dance.

Orlando was heavy, all of his weight pushing Viggo in deeper and deeper, his head lolling sideways, mouth slack, moans slipping from his lips. Viggo didn’t need to ask if he could come from this, it was there in the clamp of his body and the steel of his cock.

Who would ever have guessed? Who would ever have known that Orlando wanted this?

“I tried to tell you,” Orlando gasped. “Wanted you to do this…”

His hands covered Viggo’s, guiding him faster, and Viggo held their bodies still and squeezed the head of Orlando’s cock.

Come seeped between his fingers, Orlando cried out sharply, and Viggo held his breath, feeling each pulse.

Orlando leaned forward again, over the basin, and Viggo gripped his waist with come-slippery hands and pushed in hard and fast, over and over, and it was so fucking good that it hurt to come, unbearable tension letting go into blindingly intense release.

Slumped forward against Orlando’s back, breath rough in his throat, Orlando’s heart beat pounding through Viggo’s head, his eyes closed, Viggo could taste the sweat of Orlando’s skin.

They needed a shower.

“And by a happy co-incidence, here’s one,” Orlando said. “Think we can shower together without breaking anything?”

“Yeah,” Viggo managed to say, grabbing at the condom as he slid out of Orlando’s body.

The hot water fogged the tiny bathroom, even with the exhaust running. Viggo had to lean against the wall while Orlando adjusted the water.

“Hey?” Orlando said, sliding arms around his neck. “You all right? You’re not usually this quiet.”

“I’m fine,” Viggo said, pulling Orlando forward so their bodies touched. “Better than fine.”

 

On the counter, Viggo’s maté had cooled to a gel, and his bombilla rattled across the trailer floor when he tossed it randomly at his box of junk. There were clothes there, draped across his chair, discarded jeans and a shirt too large. Instead, he would wear Orlando next to his skin, close enough to speak.


End file.
